


The Ghost of Christmas

by clarasimone



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Bear Island, By The Sea, Christmas, Creation, Daenerys Targaryen & Gilly (ASoIaF), Daenerys' ring, F/M, Feels, Female Friendship, Ghost!Jorah, Humor, Jorah's past, Literature, Lynesse mentioned, Partnership, Passion, Romance, Sea Captain!Jorah, Snow, True Love, Winter Jorleesi, Writer!Daenerys, Writing, christmas cooking, cottage life, the ghost and mrs muir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28409979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarasimone/pseuds/clarasimone
Summary: The year is 1903, on the high cliffs of Bear Island, in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. Daenerys Targaryen has left London and her in-laws to start her life anew, only accompanied by Gilly, her faithful aid. On the outskirts of Whitecliff, she has found her dream house: Keep Cottage, which she is sharing with its owner, Captain Jorah Mormont, a dashing and often scowling sea captain… who also happens to be a ghost.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 22
Kudos: 65
Collections: Winter Jorleesi 2020





	The Ghost of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This tale is actually a segment of a longer fic I will start publishing on Valentine Day 2021 under the title "THE KEEP, FOR EVER AND A DAY or THE GHOST AND MS TARGARYEN"... because it actually aims to be a Jorleesi remake of THE GHOST AND MRS MUIR, the 1947 (but timeless) romantic film which Joseph L. Mankiewicz directed from a screenplay by Philip Dunne, based on a 1945 novel by Josephine Leslie published under the pseudonym of R.A. Dick. 
> 
> In the longer fic, I actually use scenes and dialogue from the film (sometimes gender-switching the repartee) but in the segment published for our Winter Jorleesi event, everything is original to me, though in keeping with a meshing of our Queen and Knight, as we known them, with the characters from the film, which, in themselves, already have a lot in common with our loveys... or else, the idea of a remake would not have come to me! This said, know that neither this short fic nor the long one requires for you to have seen the film.
> 
> My snowy and roasted chestnut thanks go to Terisrog for her enthusiastic script-editing, Houseofthebear for the tender vote of confidence and Salzrand for the sooooooooft illustration (on top of organizing the event and illustrating other tales and creating her own... my gosh!).
> 
> I hope you enjoy this nostalgic and supernatural Christmas romance.... and to all, a good 'Knight' !

_**THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS** _

_The year is 1903, on the high cliffs of Bear Island, in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. Daenerys Targaryen, heir to a defunct dynasty, widowed to a cruel man, has left London and her overbearing in-laws to start her life anew, only accompanied by Gilly, her faithful aid. On the outskirts of Whitecliff, the quaint portal town of said Bear Island, she has found her dream house: Keep Cottage, a grand white beauty, Queen Ann in architecture, with a tower and bow-window extraordinaire to look upon the ocean. Though society might think she is renting this new abode from Samwell Tarly, the local real estate agent, Daenerys knows she is actually sharing it with its owner, Captain Jorah Mormont, a dashing and often scowling sea captain… who also happens to be a ghost. Alas. This said, how perfectly enchanting too for a Lady with an overactive imagination and a romantic temperament! Especially when, pressed for money, she persuades him to let her write the ‘unvarnished tales’ of his seafaring life. An endeavor which gives her wings and a voice and a sense of accomplishment!_

_To say that it was love at first sight is an understatement. Yet, they hide their feelings in plain sight, preferring sparring to kissing_ — _though it makes them suffer too. Oh! But what choice do they have, I ask you, dear readers, when to kiss a ghost would precipitate Daenerys’ demise? Love is never easy, nor should it ever be._

_Let us join them on Christmas Eve…_

***

The sunshine was twinkling on the snow covering the front lawn of Keep Cottage, and Daenerys, all bundled up in Skye blue wool, her delicate features framed inside a white fur cap, was tying up Christmas decorations on the veranda’s balustrade.

“Is winter to your liking, madam?” Jorah asked, breathing in the crisp morning air.

“Oh yes, Captain!”

“Not too much snow? I could cut down a notch.”

Daenerys smirked sweetly at Jorah’s invested tone. As a ghost given powers to affect the weather, and nature, and a few other earthly delights, he took his role as season designer quite seriously.

“Oh no! It’s perfect! I love the snow! There was never much of it in London. Winters are just grey and wet and sooty there. Here, hold this…” She handed him a long wreath made of mistletoe. “Can you fix it to the arch, we’ll twirl it ‘round the column.”

Daenerys had no clue how this scene would play out if a stranger happened on them right now. Would they see a wreath float up in the air all by itself? Did she care? Not in the least. She was happy, and her tall Captain was smiling, his blue eyes sparkling as he did her bidding. Daenerys sighed internally, seeing Jorah hold up the greenery. Wasn’t it tradition to kiss under the mistletoe? And if she stood on tip-toe right now, maybe she’d reach his lips and, what if instead of precipitating the end of her, it made all the snow melt around them? She felt strangely giddy at the thought, and then…

“Oh Captain, your scarf!”

Though Jorah never parted with his dark seaman’s garb which, on any man, would have been too warm for summer and too light for winter, it suited him just fine as he, alas, did not feel the weather. But he had taken to wearing a scarf recently, the same blue as her own winter clothes. It was coming undone presently and Daenerys lifted her hands to tie it anew… without touching his flesh.

“Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold,” she whispered, teasingly.

“Heavens no, we wouldn’t want that,” he answered, rumbling just as teasingly.

How docile Jorah was this morning! He was clearly enjoying himself.

Just then, they both heard a motor car coughing its way up the road. Gilly was coming back from Whitecliff on her weekly turn working in Samwell Tarly’s office. It looked to be him, driving her home, and he was possibly marveling at how well maintained the way to Keep Cottage was, regardless of the tall banks of snow piling up on each side of the road.

“What a horrid contraption!” Jorah remarked, gazing at the car _tuf-tuffing_ its way inside the estate.

“Captain, would you have preferred Gilly made the journey in snowshoes?” Daenerys inquired, ironically.

“No!” Jorah huffed. And then more gently: “But a sleigh ride would have been more… romantic.”

“Why Captain, I do declare, I soon won’t be able to tell you apart from a flower shop girl.”

That made Jorah guffaw, a velvety deep-set laugh, as he kept his eyes on Samwell, helping Gilly out of what he considered the young man’s ‘modern atrocity.’

The Captain’s baritone laughter was a thing of beauty to Daenerys. It warmed her heart, especially as she knew of its rarity. She glanced at Jorah, for a second, admiring his profile and smiling at the ice peppering his beard ‘round his mouth. When he noticed her looking up at him, he smiled tenderly and came to stand closer to her.

Though Jorah had told Daenerys he would remain in the master bedroom when they first agreed on the haunting terms of his contract, she found out very quickly that he couldn’t stay away for very long stretches of time. Away from her, that is. She’d find him next to her when her daily routine kept her from the company of men. Well, not men per se, but Gilly, essentially, as Daenerys and she led a quiet life; even with Samwell Tarly’s sporadic visits to make sure they were faring well. At first, Jorah had made it rain every time he saw the rental agent’s motor car come down Lighthouse Road— _pesky visitor!_ —but when he noticed Samwell’ interest in Gilly, well… he rather relished the added privacy it afforded Daenerys and him, him and the new Lady of Keep Cottage.

 _The only Lady the cottage had ever known?_ Daenerys, wondered, still lost in thought. Jorah’s recent past was still a mystery to her, and she meant to find out more. There were so few chapters left for them to write in his biography and there were still a few secrets she hoped to uncover about her dashing subject.

“Oh, what now?” exclaimed Jorah. “Are they arguing? I thought they were sweethearts.”

Daenerys had to smirk at _that_ retort. But she refrained from stating the obvious about their own relationship. Instead…

“Well, Captain, if dreadful accidents stopped befalling poor Mr. Tarly every time he set foot inside Keep Cottage, maybe he wouldn’t be so reluctant to accompany Gilly to the front door.”

Piqued, Jorah simply scoffed.

“Just make sure he makes it back to Whitecliff in one piece, will you?” Daenerys asked, cocking her head with a knowing look.

“Are you ordering me to _depart_ , madam?” Jorah inquired, falsely hurt.

“Yes, _départez_ ,” Daenerys jested, in make-belief French, “and take care of Gilly’s suitor while I help our amazing cook with her errands.”

“I _am_ going, but not because you’ve ordered me, madam. I happen to have business needing my attention in Whitecliff.”

 _Well, that was impossible!_ thought Daenerys. She was about to ironically remark on it when Jorah simply vanished, not giving her, for once, the last word.

Gilly was coming up the alley, with a spring in her gait on the neatly tapped snow.

“Men!” she exclaimed, referring to her spat with Samwell, which she was sure Daenerys had witnessed.

“I know!” concurred Daenerys, laughing, before walking down the steps to help Gilly with the groceries.

_“Woof!”_

These bags were heavy.

“I say, Gilly, did you raid the market in Whitecliff?” Daenerys asked, walking after her friend presently pushing the front door and making a bee line for the kitchen. “After robbing a bank?” she added, stunned. They were still short for money. Therefore, how had Gilly…

“No! I won a raffle at the grocers’! Isn’t it grand?”

“What?” whispered Daenerys, amazed.

“And… and mister Tarly gave me a raise, milady,” Gilly added, quite proudly.

They had reached the kitchen counter to unpack all their bounty, which they were now gazing at with barely contained glee.

“Gilly, what a Christmas we’ll have!” Daenerys exclaimed, shedding her winter garb.

There was everything there for a feast! So many savory goods and, and flour and sugar, chestnuts, cranberries and spices to bake so many sweets, Daenerys would not fit in her winter dresses anymore.

“And, dear Tarly!” she thought to add, after containing her surprise. “How very considerate of him to have recognized your hard work,” Daenerys stated, so proud of Gilly, before whispering, in a conspiratorial tone: “You know, you can call him Samwell in front of me. I know how it is between you two.”

“Oh mistress…” Gilly blushed.

“And isn’t it high time, my dear, that you start calling me Daenerys? Aren’t we friends, you and I? It would mean the world to me. It would be the best Christmas present ever!” Daenerys beamed.

“Oh! no, I know what I am getting you for Christmas… Daenerys.”

Daenerys was left open-mouthed at the revelation, and then she smiled, squinting her eyes at Gilly, to quiz her silently, all the while relishing the fact that her oldest friend had just granted her, her wish.

“Gilly, now please…”

“Hush Your Grace—I mean, Daenerys! You will ruin my Christmas if you try to guess my plans, and worst if you disapprove of them. It won’t put me out, I assure you. It won’t even cost me a penny. And if you go all ‘regal’ on li’tle ol’ me, I shall go on strike, like one of your suffragettes, and let all this food go to waste.”

 _Oh Gilly!_ Daenerys couldn’t help but think, with affection. “I see I am no match for you!” she conceded, smiling.

And then, throwing her arms open, Daenerys once more embraced the vision of their plentiful goods, squealing:

“ _All this food_ , Gilly!”

And they both laughed.

*

When they were just about done putting everything away and having started the chicken broth for the stew, with lard and diced carrots, and salt, a leaf of laurel perfuming the whole kitchen, and small fancy onions instead of leaks, Gilly looked at her mistress sideways, biting her lip. There had been something she meant to tell her, before, and she was debating whether she should.

Daenerys was scrubbing the wooden counter with vigor so the sweets coming wouldn’t taste of onions and Gilly’s eyes fell on her friend’s ringless finger. She reached out to Daenerys.

“There, let me.”

“Oh no, it’s fine!”

But Gilly was holding Daenerys’ hands in hers, and she was rubbing the finger where her mother’s ring had been.

“It’s still in the window, you know,” she whispered to her. “At the pawnshop,” she added, when Daenerys remained silent.

“I heard you, Gilly,” Daenerys said, her voice breaking slightly.

“Couldn’t we go get it?” Gilly exclaimed. “I’m making a bit of money, now. There isn’t anything to spend it on here but food.”

“Oh, thank you, Gilly... but I wouldn't dream of taking your wages.”

And besides, that ring was worth a fortune; they both knew it. The pawning of it had secured their living for these past weeks, and would again, for a few months to come. It was no surprise it was still in the store’s window.

“But…” Gilly dared insist, her voice barely above a whisper, and her eyes, trying to lock on Daenerys’ who kept hers on their entangled hands, “Christmas is upon us, Daenerys, and someone might… They might… Be looking for a gift, and what a gift that ri—”

“Gilly!” Daenerys exclaimed, finally lifting her eyes to her. Her mouth was quivering, and her eyes misting over, but she was putting on a brave new smile. “Please.”

“Of course,” Gilly smiled sadly in turn, letting go of her friend. She shouldn’t have mentioned the ring. Trying to make amends, she gently lifted her hands to Daenerys’ full apron and, after a soft look into her Lady’s eyes, she devested her of the soiled garment to turn her ‘round and walk her out of the kitchen.

“Well then,” she declared, her hands pushing Daenerys’ shoulders, “I know what you should do to get back what is yours, madam!”

For a second, Gilly almost sounded like the Captain.

“My ring, Gilly?”

“Your ring… and your smile, yes!” she exclaimed. “ _You… go… write!_ You march up those staircases, Daenerys Targaryen! You lock yourself in that room of yours; you go argue with your Captain—”

At that, Daenerys swung ‘round, to face Gilly, simply gobsmacked!

“You don’t think I can hear you?” Gilly countered. “Sometimes, I think I can hear _him_ … And there are two armchairs now facing the fireplace. Did you think I would not notice _that_?”

Daenerys blanched and then turned a bright pink. But Gilly only shook her head, smiling with such empathy.

“It makes you _happy_ , my dear, _all of it!_ ”

Yes, the writing, the imagining, the flights of fancy, her romantic seclusion, all of it.

“And, so, Daenerys… Do you know how very, _very_ happy that makes _me_?”

“Oh Gilly!” Daenerys blurted out, hugging her friend and finally shedding the tears she had kept aloft.

“You go finish that novel,” Gilly repeated, hugging Daenerys back, “so you can sell it… and make us rich!” she concluded in jest, shooing her friend away.

Daenerys obeyed but, just as she was about to go up, she paused at the foot of the grand staircase. Just to smile at Gilly. And then, picking up the hem of her dress, she ran! She flew up those stairs towards her destiny.

*****

When Daenerys swung the door to her bedroom open, she was just in time to see Jorah untie his blue scarf and brush off the snow from his shoulders and his copper curls. How strange and wonderful that the real world should impact his being more and more… But Daenerys didn’t wonder long because, oh! how her Captain was beaming at her from his favorite position, next to the telescope in the bow-window. She couldn’t resist his smile, especially not when the sunshine gave him such a glow.

He looked so happy, she couldn’t risk his displeasure by probing the time just before his death, to close off the book, so she made him talk of his childhood, and some of the mischief he had surely been up to in Christmas’ past. It made for a heartwarming chapter.

When it got to be tea time, and snow began to fall in the blue of the coming night, the mood shifted in the room. Daenerys was sipping her Lapsang Souchong—a true winter’s tea, ‘warm as a shot of peated scotch,’ Jorah had once declared, so proud of Daenerys’ sturdy taste—and she was presently looking at him stoking the logs in their fireplace. She could almost not see through him this evening. He was coming back to her, nearing the full moon, when he’d look most like a real-live man… to make her suffer even more acutely.

“Jorah?”

“Yes, Khaleesi,” he answered, turning to her.

It always made her melt when he’d call her thus.

“Why did you make Keep Cottage so grand and your bed so deliciously ample?”

She had her dreamy, far-away voice, the one he could never resist. Yet he remained silent.

“It was surely not to live in it alone,” she added.

And it had finally come. This moment, this question, which they both knew would come.

But why did it have to be now? wondered Jorah. Now, with the amber of the flames casting his Lady in an unearthly light, a light flickering upon the white wool of her formfitting dress, casting shadows under the swell of her bosom and inside the secret of her Venus mound? A light layering its orange slivers all along the elegant slant of her legs, hiding from his eyes, under her long, long skirt resting at an angle from her armchair. A light licking its way up, up over the pristine purity of her skin, over her low-cut décolletage, until it was reaching her eyes, aglow with so many promises?

“You had to be in love, Captain,” Daenerys stated simply, generously.

And then, lifting her arm to him, she beckoned. “Come, come tell me of her.”

And, for the first time since knowing each other, they spoke without sparring; gently, from beginning to end. As though nothing, _nothing_ in the world could ever come between them that was not finally, and forevermore, out in the open.

“She… was a vision. A dream to behold,” Jorah confessed in his dulcet tones.

 _Of course, she was_ … _She would have to be to steal such a man’s heart_ , thought Daenerys. She closed her eyes, for just a second, just to keep the hurt at bay before opening her heart. Because there was another, suffering so much more than she. And she _loved_ this sufferer. She loved Jorah, so profoundly.

“The first time I saw her…”

His voice broke, and he had to start anew, stealing a glance towards Daenerys before turning his gaze back to the fireplace.

“The first time I saw her… I thought _grace_ , as a word and a world, had surely been invented for her.”

How bashful he looked to Daenerys, sitting across from her, his body hung forward, one of his arms crossing his chest, with his hand open upon his breast, as if cupping his heart. He was looking directly into the flames, and his golden locks and beard were aflamed. She could see the lines at the corner of his eyes deepen as he squinted to look back, so very far maybe, and certainly very deep.

“It was summer and she was wearing a large-brimmed hat and the wind, the wind kept,” he gestured with his hand, smiling softly at the recollection, “blowing ribbons in her eyes, and so she took it off, her hat, and she looked at me and…”

“You were lost.”

“Aye…” he breathed, once more daring to look at Daenerys, and her sweet visage, before looking away again.

“You guessed it yourself, I designed this house for her. Keep Cottage… _for her to keep_ , you see?”

_Oh!_

Oh! She did see, her heart constricting. Those were the exact words that came to _her_ mind when she saw the estate. But she nodded bravely to Jorah for him to, please, continue.

“I made sure there would be nooks and crannies, and secret doors, and hidden attics for her to explore.”

How so very much like her this woman had been. It pleased Daenerys before chagrining her; the dolorous irony of their twining sinking in. Had she known Jorah before… But she couldn’t let herself _go there_. 

“And I thought,” Jorah continued to explain, “that there should be many rooms for her books. Like little libraries…”

“One for each season?” Daenerys asked, with a tiny voice, unable, suddenly, to keep the hurt at bay.

“Why, yes, exactly!” Jorah fused, caught up in his description, and not seeing Daenerys bow down her head.

“And you’ve noticed the windows, so many of them, because she’d want the sea breeze to run through the house. And I made the staircases round, like her lovely figure. And I softened so many angles because, again, I wanted the house to be, to be like her: _feminine_. An ode to my Love,” he insisted, daring a look towards Daenerys. “I thought every room should sing to her and of her. And I made the architect add the Widow’s Walk, where you so like to have your tea and gaze at the sunset, for her to search the horizon…”

“…and long for your return,” Daenerys completed, looking up at Jorah. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. Because of course, it’s what she would have done. _Every day._

_Oh Jorah!_

“Rather presumptuous of me, I’m afraid,” he blushed, too shy to look at Daenerys and therefore failing to see her melancholic look. “But the kitchen. You’ve seen how it’s bright and expansive. Well, it had to be for us to try the recipes I’d bring back from my voyages, and make sure there would always be something cooking there that would smell good and comforting… The way it is today, Daenerys,” Jorah thought to add, kindly, and yet again searching her face.

“Yes,” Daenerys murmured, but reclining back into the shadows, “Gilly and I are preparing a Christmas feast.”

Even she, did not hear the last of her sentence.

“The house was ready, just in time. Just before… the wedding.”

“Oh!?”

 _Oh, there had been a wedding after all_ , Daenerys thought, feeling slightly dizzy. She hadn’t prepared for Jorah’s confession to bring her so much pain. She wasn’t jealous; really, she wasn’t. She had truly wanted… She had hoped the Captain knew happiness before his passing. But she was confused now. What had become of the Captain’s wife?

Yes, she was confused and sad, and she shouldn’t be. This was about him, not her, her and her silly delusions. She had become Captain Jorah Mormont’s biographer and she was going to finish this book in style, and with panache, and her readers would know the extent of Jorah’s beautiful love story.

“And this room, Jorah, she… she must have loved it!” Daenerys affirmed, having found her voice back and moving once more into the light.

“I certainly bought the writing desk for her.”

“Yes, you would. You would be the kind of man to buy his fiancée the most gorgeous of all writing desks, with dainty panels and drawers full of scented stationery.”

She was smiling now, her whole being focused on Jorah, her heart taken over by the overwhelming desire to let him know how much he deserved for this woman to love him, and how wonderful his gift to her was.

“Oh! Jorah, did she tell you just how perfect that bow-window is, so theatrical with its raised platform, and your telescope, proudly sitting there for you both to search which star to wish upon? And… and the bed, as big as a kingdom, tell me she noticed the carvings on its headboard, the ships, the raging sea, and the mermaid and the bear, and the Captain and—”

Daenerys was so passionate now, she was brimming and Jorah could hardly keep up with the speed of her speech, though he could not take his eyes away from her beautiful face. It took him a second to register what followed, her words tumbling without pause to:

“—and that nightgown I wear was for the woman of your dreams, was it not?”

There was a silent lull and Jorah found himself having to take a deep breath.

“Aye,” he breathed out.

“Did she look like me?” she inquired, the words leaving her mouth before she could stop them.

Daenerys had never thought about that possibility and, suddenly… It would make sense, wouldn’t it? That Jorah let her stay at the Keep because she reminded him _of her._ That he had opened up, not because he was falling for a stranger but because he missed his lost love.

How could she have been so blind, so presumptuous herself? To think he could have loved her, Daenerys, instead of she.

But Jorah was not responding. She had to repeat, willing her voice to remain steady.

“Did she look like me?”

“Yes,” Jorah had to acquiesce.

 _Oh Gods, had she played the part of his fiancée?_ Daenerys wondered, her heart breaking. Yet, she forged on.

“What was her name?”

“Lynesse,” he murmured, trying to find a breach in Daenerys’ train of thought to stop her from inflicting herself more pain. Because she was in pain, it was so abundantly clear. This was not the course he had set for them. This—

“Captain.” There were tears threatening to spill from Daenerys’ eyes. “Tell me… Tell me Lynesse loved you _very, very_ much because, or else…”

“No.”

“No?”

Daenerys had to blink at that and then hold her breath when she saw Jorah lean in closer towards her.

“No, Daenerys,” he murmured, his deep voice rumbling like far-away thunder over the sea, “I cannot tell you Lynesse loved me _very, very much_ , nor can I tell you she adored the writing desk nor was glad for the telescope or ever looked as happy and amorous as _you_ , my amazing, my one and only, my beautiful darling, when you dream in my bed, because Lynesse never set foot in this house. She left me… at the altar.”

 _What?_ Daenerys was in shock.

“Lynesse never loved me, you see. She thought she’d be coming into money when marrying me, and I thought I’d put all of that money… into our home.”

“A home she never wanted?”

“Indeed not, Khaleesi.”

_What a fool this woman had been!_

“But you said, you said she wanted, she wanted windows for the sea breeze and, and rooms like libraries, one for each season…”

“Daenerys, the woman _I dreamed of_ would have… but I, I misconstrued Lynesse. I thought I knew her, and I didn’t. I understand that now. Oh! She would have _hated_ Keep Cottage!” Jorah laughed, surprising Daenerys. “She now lives in some horrid tower in New York City with a bumptious industrialist, which should give you an idea as to how she misconstrued _me_.”

That brought a smile to Daenerys, though she was still shaking, and it gave Jorah the courage to lean in even closer.

“My darling, it was never for Lynesse that Keep Cottage was built. It was for the regal deity who, one day, braved everything, and left her in-laws, and crossed the sea, and was not afraid of a ghost. The infuriating, stubborn, witty, generous young woman who, one glorious summer, came here, wearing a large-brimmed hat with muslin ribbons the wind kept blowing into her eyes, until she took it off to look at the house, look at _me_ …”

“Daring you to love her back,” Daenerys whispered, finally understanding it was she, all along, which Jorah was describing.

“Daring me to love _you_ back, yes! Because you claimed the Keep for yourself, you _fought_ for it, and you made it your home. _Our home!_ And—”

Oh! how Jorah was breathless, speaking to her with passion and, just like Daenerys had done, a few minutes ago, he dived into the rest without pausing.

“—And, Khaleesi, hear me! Lynesse never, _ever_ wore the nightgown I gifted you. She never saw it. She never knew of its existence. It was my mother’s. A gift from my father to his wildling bride, his beautiful pixie…”

“Oh, Jorah!”

Tears were pearling from Daenerys’ eyes and she held her breath, seeing Jorah lean towards her, towards her face, and putting his hand so very close to hers, on the armrest of her chair.

“My love, my _only_ love,” Jorah whispered with such intensity, his lips so close to hers, Daenerys felt the warmth of his breath upon her. “Khaleesi, _please_ don’t cry. _You_ are the Lady of Keep Cottage. It was destined to you and, had I known, had I foreseen your coming…”

“Jorah…”

Oh, surely he knew she had only been able to rent Keep Cottage… because he had passed away. There lied the terrible conundrum of their love.

Holding in her trembling breath, Daenerys looked at their hands, almost touching. If she moved her pinkie, she would come into contact with him… and join him in the afterlife. She almost did it then, lifting her gaze to him. But, seeing the resolve in her eyes, then her hand move… Jorah pulled away. And rose from his seat!

“Madam!”

“I…” Daenerys was still so confused, and hurting, beyond the certainty that Jorah loved her. He _loved_ her…

“It’s you, alive, I need!” He was shaking from the folly she had almost committed.

Oh, how formidable Jorah sounded and looked upon these words! And then, Daenerys had to hold her breath because her Captain was kneeling in front of her.

“Khaleesi please,” she heard him say, “for me! Please!... _Live?_ ”

_But why, why should she? What did it matter? It only kept them apart._

“I want you to become the woman you’ve always dreamt to be; I want you to soar; I want you to live a thousand springs!” Jorah murmured in his deepest baritone, his passion washing all over Daenerys. “If you live,” he pleaded further, as if luring her…

“If I live?” Daenerys repeated.

“Then you can finish your work, your _beautiful_ writing, our book, and let the whole world know—”

“Of our love story?”

“Yes. Yes, my darling. Exactly!”

How relieved Jorah looked to Daenerys, his soulful face half ablaze from the fire and his eyes needing no light of day to shine with _amour_.

Daenerys raised her hand towards him, towards his cheek, but he ‘intercepted’ her motion with his own, and started when, his now translucid fingers hovering above hers, he saw his usual blueish shimmer sparkle upon meeting Daenerys’… reddish one.

 _What? What miracle was this?_ Jorah was struck dumb, seeing the strange phenomena occur before his very eyes while he guessed, lifting his gaze to Daenerys, that she, _she_ was not in the least surprised by it.

There was a lull between them, and then… Gilly’s voice!

“Milady... Daenerys?”

_Oh!_

Daenerys turned swiftly ‘round, and seeing her friend standing in the doorway, she rose from her seat. How long had she been there? What tableau was she composing: she, all aflutter, and her Captain, absentee? Daenerys dared not venture.

“I… I thought you should know,” Gilly whispered, very well understanding that she had happened upon some momentous event beyond her comprehension, “that dinner is ready.”

She paused, waiting for Daenerys to react. And then she thought to add: “The stew we made?”

“Yes!” Daenerys exclaimed, recomposing herself as she smoothed her dress. “Thank you, Gilly. I’ll be down, presently… And Gilly?”

“Yes?”

“We’ll make the most beautiful Christmas tree ever.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Gilly beamed.

*******

When Daenerys came back to her room, having replaced the tremors of her heart with joy, thanks to Gilly, it was dark. And yet, she feared not, because it smelled faintly of vanilla. The pipe tobacco which Jorah smoked too rarely.

Its scent warmed her heart… and gave her the courage to go sit at her typewriter.

“Captain?”

Only the wind answered her, howling. Yes, howling outside, across from their beautiful bow-window. Was he upset from their earlier confessions? Why had the weather turned so ferocious?... She lit the lamp on her desk and called him again.

“I believe, Captain, there may be only one chapter left to write, and I would so very much like to lay it down with you,” her lovely voice hung in the air. “Won’t you come to me?” she added, hoping.

After a beat, as if on cue, the room became brighter and Daenerys smiled, seeing the soft light of the gas appliqués shimmer, and the licks of the fireplace play in the hearth, underneath the Captain’s portrait which hung over the mantlepiece.

“And what should we write about?” Jorah asked, materializing next to Daenerys, his voice as warm as the amber glow about the room.

Daenerys looked up at him, and his eyes crinkled with affection. They could have stayed like this forever, and maybe they did.

But then Daenerys blinked.

“It was our maiden voyage,” she whispered, while typing the words “and I had brought way too many clothes on our honeymoon…” 

Oh! 

Oh, she was going to take them on that adventure he had secretly imagined for them, as newlyweds, escaping the world, escaping everything and every man! A honeymoon at sea he had dreamed of a hundred times… but which they would never, ever know.

“It was our maiden voyage,” he nonetheless whispered back.

And, looking once more at Daenerys, and she at him, Jorah let go. He dived into the violet waters of her eyes, following her lead; his heart forgetting its suffering for just this evening. For just a moment. 

“It was our maiden voyage… and you had brought, way, way too many clothes,” he smiled at Daenerys, alighting her features. 

Of course, he would play along, Daenerys realized, so much in love. Of course, he would tell her of his fantasy. And hers.

*

“I had set a course for us across the Mediterranean, on our schooner, taking us to Altaï Sicilia,” Jorah boasted, walking back and forth in front of Daenerys’ writing desk, the snow flurries outside now dancing gaily behind him for a perfect Christmas. “In the Tyrrhenian Sea, of course, where the water was warm enough for a pixie and where said pixie would not have to bring… so many clothes!”

Daenerys laughed at the repetition, not minding at all Jorah scolding her for a make-believe breach in honeymoon protocol! 

Oh! how she typed, and smirked, as he went on to describe their adventures in and around the Eolian isles. They were chasing Ulysses, of course, but also bathing in cerulean waters, raiding open-air markets and, sailing, sailing full speed ahead, to race along jumping dolphins, and look for sea monsters, and demi-gods…

“And sirens?” Daenerys asked, lifting her fingers from her keys.

“Well no, Daenerys!” Jorah looked dumbfounded at her overlooking the obvious: “The siren was on board!”

Once more, Jorah made Daenerys laugh out loud. 

“Oh! you laugh, madam?” Jorah exclaimed, with theatrical flourish. “Well! Let me tell you how this siren made me suffer, with her silver locks, wild and free, and her seven freckles…” 

Jorah was leaning towards Daenerys now, one hand upon her desk and the other bent on his hip, his expression quite formidable. 

“And…” He meant to add more injurious faults but being so close to Daenerys’ luminous smile was making him lose his train of thought.

“And… her too voluminous wardrobe?” suggested Daenerys.

“Yes! Yes, exactly,” he concurred, pulling back “because, let us be scientific about all of this: have you ever known mermaids to be but naked?”

“Well, they do have scales. On their tails?” 

At this, Jorah once more stopped in his tracks and looked at Daenerys with a deadpan expression that made his Lady bite the inside of her cheeks. She loved it so when he play-acted irritation. She lowered her head then and spoke out loud what she was typing. 

“The… mermaid… was not… very… cooperative.” 

When she lifted her eyes to Jorah, he was smiling, trying not to laugh. 

Of course, she then had to add: “Next, you’ll tell me the sun and sea were expecting a tribute, not a fashion show?”

***

“Yes, my darling,” Jorah whispered, as he gazed upon Daenerys, reclining on her pillows, her lithe body all bundled up inside the midnight blue eiderdown of his bed, to contrast with the icy cold winter of the night, “the sun and sea were expecting a tribute, and what a glorious one you gifted them.”

Daenerys was not typing anymore because… did they really want to finish the book, this night or any night? Weren’t they writing a never-ending story? Theirs, and theirs alone? 

“Jorah?” 

“Yes, my Lady.”

They were gazing at each other, their faces and lips as close as they could be without touching; without kissing.

“You’re about to vanish, aren’t you?” Daenerys whispered sweetly, sleepily. “Leaving me to gaze at your portrait?” 

_Oh no…_ If she was going to lay down her jesting mask, he would have to let go of his, and they would suffer anew. He tried to save them from this woe. 

“I’m always here, with you. I’ll be here tomorrow evening too. Can’t abandon my pixie on Christmas.” 

While whispering in velvet rumbles, Jorah’s hand swept over Daenerys’ forehead, and the wind blew away a strand of hair as if his fingers had done the deed. 

“I love it so, when you tell the sea breeze to caress me,” Daenerys purred.

He was going to lose himself in her eyes if he didn’t go soon.

“Jorah?”

“Yes, my Love.”

“Can you feel this?” she asked, raising her fingers to hover above the prickly nest of his beard, where his lips hid. 

_Oh!_

_Oh… dear Gods,_ he did. The same way he had seen and felt her faery touch before, when he was kneeling in front of her, before supper. How could that be? 

Jorah closed his eyes on Daenerys’ daring almost-touch, and… _Don’t stop my love, don’t_ … He could feel again, his skin tingling all over, his flesh alighting… He could… _Oh…_ When he opened his eyes again, there were tears of joy in Daenerys’ eyes.

“Jorah?”

He had to answer, didn’t he? But her touch, her touch was robbing him of words. He could only manage to whisper: 

_Yes, Khaleesi._

“On our schooner…” 

_Yes?_

“We made love, didn’t we?” 

_Yes._

“Every day, and every night.” 

_Yes._

“And we never came back to shore?”

_Never!_

“And did I make you happy?”

 _—Oh please, please… please stop!_ Jorah thought, silently, before speaking again, his deep voice breaking. 

“You… You my darling, made the sun rise and set on my watch—and in my heart!” 

Jorah slid his face closer to Daenerys’ then, breathing in her scent, her very breath, and he whispered on her lips and in the violet of her eyes: “My Siren, my Queen, you, in my arms, assuaged all of the Gods and put them to shame. We moored at sea, do you remember? With Stromboli on our starboard side, between Mount Etna and far-away Vesuvius, and we dared them to erupt. _We dared them,_ do you hear? While we made love, forevermore!”

“Jorah?” 

He couldn’t answer back anymore. His throat was on fire and Daenerys was grazing his lips again, and his eyelids, and his cheek. But he opened his eyes when she spoke again. 

“Those are the very words I wrote before you took me to bed… and I could not wish for a more perfect gift, for this Christmas, and all the Christmases to come in our Keep.”

 _Oh! my love._

“And now you will dream of us?” he heard himself say. 

“And now, I will dream of us.” 

***

_Daenerys did; dream of Jorah’s arms and their lips finally meeting on their schooner in the sun, and surely in their garden, where violet roses bloom, and in their bed, where time can stop, and miracles occur…_

_I hear you plead: “And can all this happily-ever-aftering be forevermore?” A noble wish, for sure! But, dear readers, beware of possible calamities postponing felicity. One is about to rear its ugly head and his name is… Daario Naharis, rival writer, adventurer and womanizer!_

_Yes, oh woe! And what is more, so many other strings are left for you to follow: What does Gilly plan to gift Daenerys for Christmas? What fate awaits Daenerys’ ring? What business did Jorah have in town? Will Samwell and Gilly… marry? Will Daenerys find a publisher for her Captain’s biography? And what should we make of magical shimmers between two souls and hearts, desperately in love with each other… but forever near and forever apart?_

_Dear readers, the answers await, on the other side of the Holidays! Chapter 1 will be published on Valentine Day._

_Until then, believe in wintery miracles and the eternal love burning between a Queen and her Knight, whichever form they take in our imagination. Forever and a day._


End file.
